T o Ani and a few others who devoutly followed the gods of Egypt, Zaphenath-paneah showed an appalling lack of concern for his dead wife’s eternal welfare. “I cared for her while she lived, and know I will see her in the Otherworld,” the vizier told Ani one afternoon. “But I do not believe physical objects will be of any use in the spirit world.”
Horrified by the master’s attitude and the prospect of what others would say, Ani finally convinced Zaphenath-paneah to allow him to fully prepare Asenath’s tomb in accordance with Egyptian rites and traditions. Though Ani knew Asenath had placed her soul into the hands of her husband’s invisible God, the citizens of Thebes would question both the vizier’s love for his wife and his devotion to his God if he did not honor her with a proper burial. As a practical, sensible people, they believed in physical preparation and tangible gods.
And so to Ani fell the complete responsibility of preparing his mistress for the tomb. The lady’s tomb lay on the west side of the Nile, past the dried-up, barren fields which should have been emerald with new crops, past the row of temples lining the Valley of the Dead. Like other members of the nobility, a mastaba had been ordered for her upon the date of her marriage, and the rectangular, flat-topped masonry building lay in a neat row with several others, just one “street” in the necropolis, a city designed for the dead.
The people of Thebes believed that at sunset every night the spirits of the dead rose from their vaults to linger in the doorways of their tomb chapels. Aided by magic formulas and amulets, they looked over the river to the living city, glowing like a lamp in the gentle dusk. They felt the breath of wind that moved over the river of life, smelled the sweetly damp scent of flowering crops and the aromas of mingled evening meals.
Burial was not an event to be taken lightly. Ani had to be certain that Asenath’s chamber was adequately provisioned with food, furniture and the lotus blossoms she loved. The temple of her tomb had to face the river; narrow passageways connected the temple with her burial chamber and a storeroom.
Asenath’s tomb also had to be populated with servants. Because the Egyptians believed her soul would live and work in the Otherworld just as she lived and worked in her mortal life, servants were imperative. No civilized eighteenth-dynasty Egyptian would consider burying human servants with a master or mistress, so specially engraved statues known as ushabti figures were placed in the tomb. In the other world these figures would be magically animated to perform their mistress’s bidding.
Since a host of slaves and servants had cared for Lady Asenath’s mortal needs, Ani hired ten sculptors to create her ushabti figures: miniature cooks, litter-bearers, guards, corn-grinders, herdsmen, dancing girls and maids.
The actual burial chamber lay beneath the surface of the ground, and a score of workers descended into its depths every morning to prepare the subterranean house for its eternal occupant. A team of skilled painters adorned the walls with hieroglyphic texts and pictures that described Asenath and depicted her most noteworthy worldly accomplishments. One set of pictures showed her sailing beside her husband, Zaphenath-paneah; another showed her with Efrayim and Menashe at her knee. The image of water was essential, for her soul would need water to drink, and the sail would encourage the breath of her ka to return.
Tomb paintings customarily showed the deceased standing with the god or goddess she had worshipped in life. When the artist came to Ani for instruction, he scratched his bald head. “My lady’s god?” He knew the lady had recently worshipped at the temple of Min, the goddess of fertility, but some inner voice warned him that she would not want that goddess staring at her throughout all eternity.
“Paint the sign for Neter, the Invisible God,” Ani finally told the artist.
The wall that would stand at the sarcophagus’s feet was reserved for an elaborate inscription to eternally remind Lady Asenath of her glorious funeral procession. Spelled out in careful hieroglyphics, the message foretold what would happen within a few days:
A goodly burial arrives in peace, your seventy days having been completed in your place of embalming. Your mortal shell being placed upon the bier and sledge dragged by young bulls, the road opened with milk until you reach the door of your tomb. Your husband and children, united with one accord, weep with loving hearts. Your mouth is opened by the lector-priest and your purification is performed by the Sem-priest. Neter adjusts for you your mouth and opens for you your eyes and ears, your flesh and your bones being complete in all that appertains to you. Spells and glorifications are recited for you. There is made for you an Offering, which the king gives, your own heart being truly with you, your heart of your earthly existence, you having arrived in your former state, as on the day on which you were born. There is brought to you the Son-whom-you-love, the courtiers making obeisance. You enter into a land given by the king, into the sepulcher of the west.
Despite his hard work and the success of his efforts, with every passing day Ani grew more nervous. The master’s brothers might return at any time, and the seventy days of mourning for Lady Asenath had not yet been completed. What if the master’s family came during the funeral? Would the Egyptian rites offend the Canaanites?
The mere thought of such a disaster shattered his composure. Enough troubles rose to vex him each morning; he did not need to invent new ones. Just that morning, as Ani stood on the deck of the felucca which ferried him across the Nile, one of the hired masons had approached with a basket.
“I have a question about this statue,” he said, grimacing as he lowered the heavy basket to the deck.
Ani peered into the basket. Inside was an ushabti figure, a lovely statue of a kneeling woman. The base of the statue had been inscribed with Asenath’s name and a magic formula through which the statue would be brought to life in the Otherworld.
Ani’s dread melted into relief. “Why, it’s perfect. What is the problem?”
“Who is it?” the man asked, lowering his callused hands onto the statue.
For the first time, Ani looked up into the man’s face. The mason had a stony face that did not look capable of any pleasant emotion. His wide-shouldered, broad body was adorned only with a working-man’s linen kilt.
“It is a maidservant,” Ani said, speaking as if to a slow child.
The workman stared back with scorn in his eyes. “I know it’s a servant. But who is it?”
“Lady Asenath’s handmaid.”
Unnerved by the big man’s persistence, Ani turned away, but the man grabbed his arm. “Does this handmaid have a name?”
“My lady’s handmaid is called Mandisa,” Ani said. “Not that it should matter to a common laborer. Mandisa is a lady.”
“A lady?” A flash of cynical humor crossed the man’s granitelike face. “Yes, I am sure she is. I know her and her daughter.”
Ani gave the man a triumphant smile. “You are mistaken. Mandisa has no daughter. She has only a son.”
The amused look left the man’s eyes. He stiffened, his square jaw tensing.
The felucca had reached the opposite shore. Ani stepped back from the railing, eager to be away from the man.
The sooner his lady was buried, the sooner their lives could return to normal.
Standing at attention in the vizier’s courtyard, Tarik dismissed his guards with a curt command and turned his attention to the list of concerns Ani had dictated for him. A season of adjustment had come to Zaphenath-paneah’s household, and Tarik wondered if these changes were truly for the best. Since Lady Asenath’s death, Tizara had taken complete and confident charge of the vizier’s sons, and Mandisa and Adom had said their farewells and left the house. The steward, whom Tarik had always thought unflappable, seemed irritable and distracted without a mistress to consult for the daily running of the estate. And Zaphenath-paneah, his mind occupied with altogether too many things, spent much of his time in Goshen or at Pharaoh’s palace. When he was home, the vizier walked around the villa with a distracted expression on his face. He was preoccupied with his wife’s funeral and the arrival of his Canaanite family, but Tarik wondered how much of his master’s silence was due to concentration and how much was a result of grief.
One of the slave boys from the gatekeeper’s lodge skipped across the courtyard, a flushed smile on his face. “Hail, Tarik, captain of the guard! Anhur of the gatehouse salutes you!”
“What is it, boy?” Tarik answered, in no mood for diplomatic pleasantries.
“A stranger stands at the gate, seeking word of Mandisa.”
“That lady no longer resides here. Send the man on his way.”
“My master Anhur has said as much to the man, but he will not leave. He demands an audience with the vizier.”
“The vizier cannot be bothered with petty trifles.” Tarik made a shooing gesture as he climbed the steps to the portico. “Mandisa no longer lives here, and we do not know where she has gone.”
The boy bobbed his head. “My master Anhur has said as much to the man, but he says he will remain until the vizier hears him. His name is Idogbe, and he says he will not leave until the vizier gives him his wife.”
Tarik halted. “But Mandisa is a widow.”
The boy’s shaved head bobbed again. “My master Anhur has said as much to the man, but the stranger is no spirit, Captain. He is real, and has eaten nearly half the figs in my master’s breakfast bowl.”
Exasperated, Tarik leaned forward. “What has your master Anhur not said to the man?”
The boy blanched and took a step backward. “Why, nothing, Captain.”
“I thought as much,” Tarik said, sighing. “All right. Tell your master to hold the man at the gate until I speak with Ani. Then we shall tell Anhur what to do.”
“He says Mandisa is his wife?” Ani’s eyes widened in astonishment. “But she told us—”
“She thought he was dead,” Tarik interrupted. He had found Ani in Zaphenath-paneah’s chamber, finalizing arrangements for Asenath’s interment. “But the man is alive, he is here, and he demands to see you, my lord.”
He had expected the vizier to turn the man away with a polite word of regret, but Zaphenath-paneah looked up from his papyri with an undeniable gleam of interest in his eye.
“By all means, send him in,” Zaphenath-paneah answered, a look of implacable determination settling onto his face. “I would like to talk to a man who buys a wife and abandons her when she finds herself with child.”
Idogbe shuffled behind the guards, trying not to gape at the luxurious surroundings of the grand vizier’s house. Mandisa had lived here? Unthinkable that such a slip of a girl should rise to such an exalted position. So why on earth had she left this place?
The guards turned to face him, exposing the reception hall where a stately, remote figure sat upon an elevated dais. Remembering his manners, Idogbe walked forward and slapped himself onto the polished floor like a swimmer diving into the Nile. For Sebek’s glory, he must not fail in this.
“Life, prosperity and health to you, exalted Zaphenath-paneah!” he called.
“Who are you, and what is it you want?” The vizier’s tone was coolly disapproving.
Idogbe lifted his eyes to the solitary, majestic figure in the gilded chair. “A woman, O glorious one. I have sought the Canaanite woman called Mandisa for many days, and Sebek, god of my strength, has led me to your noble house. If I had known she was serving you, I might have come sooner to offer myself. But not until I saw her figure among those destined for your wife’s eternal resting place did I know that Mandisa resided here.”
“You have not sought her in nine years,” the vizier answered. The muscles in his back and shoulders rippled in a fluid motion as he leaned forward. “Mandisa told me her story before she entered my household. You abandoned her when she told you she would bear a child.”
“How was I to know she would bear a son?” Idogbe asked, smiling with complete candor. He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “A seer from the temple of Sebek assured me she would bear a girl.”
“And so you left her?” The vizier’s left eyebrow rose a fraction. “You took a woman away from her people and homeland, you planted a child within her, and then you departed.” His handsome features sharpened into a glowering mask of rage. “I would not treat a dog as roughly as you have treated the woman you called your wife. The law says that if you abandon her, you divorce her. One-third of anything you own is now hers.”
“But, O glorious one, I did not make her my wife.” Idogbe turned his smile up a notch. He lowered his voice and edged forward, as though being closer would help the vizier understand. After all, Zaphenath-paneah was a man of the world, and a man of his position would have as many concubines and wives as Pharaoh, probably more, since Amenhotep was still a child.
“Mandisa’s true role was more like a concubine’s,” he said, hoping to disarm the solemn vizier with a let’s-be-honest smile. “She was a pretty thing I bought for my pleasure. I never promised to love the girl, and the silver I gave her father was not a bride-price. After all, she was a Canaanite—” he wrinkled his nose “—fresh from the fields.”
“You didn’t deserve her,” the vizier snapped. “And you have no right to know where she is.” He nodded at the guard who stood at his side. “This man is dismissed.”
“But surely a man has a right to his son,” Idogbe protested. “Even the son of a concubine belongs to the man who fathered the child.”
Two impassive guards grabbed Idogbe’s arms. “I haven’t finished,” he cried, pushing them aside. “By Sebek’s destructive strength and in his name, the boy is mine. I have a legal right to him! By the life of Pharaoh, you should listen to me!”
But the vizier was no longer listening and other guards swarmed forward, ready to eject Idogbe from the villa. A multitude of hands fell upon him, and though he could have beaten any single one of them easily, Idogbe allowed the guards to drag him from the hall.
Once they had deposited him on the sands of the courtyard, he stood, brushed a layer of grit from his knees and fixed a steely eye on the bantam captain who had escorted him to the vizier. “The woman may not be my wife,” he said, forcing his lips into a stiff smile, “but the boy is my son. And as certainly as Sebek is lord of the river, I will find him.”
Lost in the heart of Thebes, Idogbe moved down a dark street, searching for a market where he could buy a hin of beer or even stronger drink. The confrontation at the vizier’s house had lit a hot, clenched ball of anger at his center. Passersby scurried out of his way; he knew he made a frightening picture. Frustration always brought a hard frown and a glint of temper to his face.
He would not let himself be stopped by this powerful puppet of Pharaoh’s. A man could own but a few eternal things in life: his name, his soul and his sons. Neither the vizier nor Pharaoh himself had a right or a reason to keep Idogbe from his boy.
Turning toward the west, he moved with unhurried purpose toward the riverfront. From the birdlike steward he had learned that his wife had been Lady Asenath’s handmaid, and he also knew that noble lady lay quiet in her chambers, still awaiting her tomb. So if Mandisa had truly left the vizier’s house, she had not had time to go far.
And all things moved along the river. Even in its depleted state, the Nile was still the lifeblood of Egypt, carrying its people upon its verdigris back, watering the earth, bringing life and nourishment to an otherwise parched land. No one traveled without stopping for food in its merchant stalls. Wherever Mandisa had gone, she had followed the Nile. And since she would not go toward Canaan in the north, she had assuredly ventured south.
Humming a confident tune, Idogbe strode toward the river.